


Don't Put the Blame On Me

by DennisCrumb



Category: Split (2016)
Genre: Aftermath, Angst, Canon Compliant, Crime Scene, Grief/Mourning, Victim Blaming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-24
Updated: 2019-04-24
Packaged: 2020-01-25 18:05:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18579754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DennisCrumb/pseuds/DennisCrumb
Summary: Claire's father just wants to ask Casey, lone survivor, a question. "Why?"





	Don't Put the Blame On Me

No words were needed as Casey stared defiantly up into the policewoman's concerned gaze. 

She wasn't going with her uncle. They would have to pry her fingers out of the leather seat, until her nails became embedded in the fabric. Another crime scene to clean up.

"Alright." The officer breaks their silent connection. Nods once, understanding in the set of her shoulders. "Alright," she repeats. "Wait here for me, sweetie."

Casey doesn't need to be told. The door slams shut and she watches the officer walk over to her partner. They exchange words before looking back at the strange, mute girl in their vehicle.

Then, an EMT comes over, having been watching by the ambulance in tense contemplation; it's the same woman who'd treated the bite on her calf. Saw the scars around her clavicles and torso. She looks more resolved now addressing the officers, gesturing around emphatically.

Uncle John is too far away for her to see, or hear.

Wrapping the tan Philly Zoo jacket tighter around her freezing body, Casey stares blankly at the headrest. 

She should be feeling absolutely devastated right now, or relieved. Maybe even happy.

Right now Casey just feels...hollow. Adrift. Floating between the external and internal. People are shouting. Her headspace is nothing more than whistled wind. The sky is blue. Her version is blurry. Her calf is throbbing. 

Maybe it's the painkillers.

Or the rapture is here, and with The Beast having marked her for the afterlife, she's now in the process of being reborn.

"Sir, you can't be here!" Someone with authority barks. "Stay behind the tape!"

The car door wrenches open and for a second she thinks it's John and then...

And then, maybe she has died because she sees the hopeful face of her father.

Except it's not him either.

"Mr. Benoit,  _please_ ," a rough looking officer with a kind, gruff voice grabs the man by the arm but he pulls it away. "We're handling it. We'll update you soon as we can."

"I don't want anymore updates!" Mr. Benoit snaps before turning back to Casey, desperation tightening his features. "I saw them take a body away just moments ago. I've been here for almost an  _hour, dammit_! Where is my daughter!?" His shout abruptly notches down to a whimper, exhaustion with a hint of doubt taking its toll. "Is she _okay_? Where is my baby girl?"

"I..." Casey's voice withers as she looks down at the man, numbness ebbing away in the face of his grief.

Mr. Benoit looks close to death himself. Two watery, bloodshot eyes bulge out at her around pale and sagging skin. His jacket half hangs off his shoulder and a loop has been skipped in his belt.

Casey is reminded of her father unmoving on the kitchen floor, milk and Cheerios sopping through his shirt and her footsie pajamas.

"Where is my daughter?" Mr. Benoit whispers, tongue clicking wetly, mouth a cavern of tears and bile, spittle on his chin. "They– _they_ won't tell me anything. Oh, God. Please..."

He hangs his head, knees hitting carpet interior with a loud _thump_ as he sags against the driver seat. A rag of bones. The only source of strength left is in him white-knuckling the car door in case he's hauled off.

Casey looks down at his crumpled frame, her mouth open in silent horror. 

A high pitched keening sound escapes between Mr. Benoit's trembling lips, erupts in choked sobs, shoulders heaving. "I just need to know what happened, Casey. I–" he cuts himself off with a shake of his head.

"Mr. Benoit..." the officer tries again, caution seeping into his weary voice. "You don't want to do this now..."

But Mr. Benoit only has attention for Casey.

Reaching out, she hesitates and drops her hand on the seat beside his bent arm. Afraid to touch him. Claire would never hold her father again, assure him that she's still his little girl, no matter where she may go or what should happen.

She, too, has been defiled. Half naked and pried open. Her and Marcia. It's the closest Casey has ever came to identifying with her peers.

Someone retches and it dissolves into gasping sobs.

"You've gotta keep it together," another person says, "there's people watching."

She's been hearing that a lot this past hour.

Casey looks down at Claire's father and believes he knows, deep down by now, the fate of his daughter. He just needs to hear the words, bring it to reality. 

"I'm so sorry," Casey's voice cracks.

With a sigh, the officer gets his hands under Mr. Benoit's forearms and pulls him up.

A distinct change in air has Casey pulling back.

The switch would be jarring had she not experienced it multiple times over the past few days.

Mr. Benoit seizes up, like an corpse reanimated, and bares his teeth hungrily at her. "This is all **your** fault!" He shouts. Seethes. He rages. Kicks the car so hard it shakes. "If we'd just left in time – left _you_ – like she wanted, that man would've never taken her!"

 _That's not true. They weren't after me_ , Casey thinks wildly, even as his disgust splits her in two. 

"Why you?" His face scrunches together, eyes red and swollen nearly shut as he squints them, as if he can't fathom. The reject, the outsider, troublemaker...given a second chance, and not his angel. 

She knows what he's thinking. Why his child who had her whole life ahead of her, instead of this...this fatherless child, motherless child, an indistinct blot amongst all the others.

What could she possibly offer the world? Or herself?

Why just her?

Why her at all?

Casey shakes her head. She has the answer but it's too cruel to say.

She'd basically gotten off largely scot-free. It was as if she were an unwitting spectator more than a victim.

Disgust rolls over her.

"That's my little girl," Mr. Benoit wails, and what little was left of his energy depletes. He leans heavily against the officer whose interlocked his arms around a now childless father, gesturing for someone to handle this mess while he gets him away.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, _I'msorry_..." Casey whimpers through the lump in her throat. Eyelashes fluttering prompt her tears to escape, like dew sliding off blades off grass to the soil below, she absorbs them back into her. Salty on her lips. The recycle repeats as more spring forth feeding her gaping mantra. Horror on a loop.

"She didn't deserve this." He tells Casey, half turned away, eyeing her as if _she_ did. 

"I'm sorry about Claire! Okay!" Casey bursts, pounding her fists in her lap. Revels in the explosion of pain. "I'm sorry about Claire and I'm sorry about Marcia." The poor old woman, too. "I **am**." 

Casey breaks down. Sniffs, tears streaming hot down her face, for everyone to see. "But I'm **not** sorry about being here." She clutches the jacket tighter around her shaking form, straightening her spine as she leans forward, trickles of opposition shot in her veins.

"I won't be!" She half screams, half sobs, her sorrow and anger joining his own. She isn't certain if her words are directed at him entirely, or herself, or Uncle John, the living or the dead. "You can't _make me!_ "

The door slams shut in both their faces. A blue uniform blocks the window. More shouting. 

_You can't make me..._

She has to believe those words.

She _has_ to.

If she doesn't she'll go madder.

"They're just words from a grieving man, Casey. None of this is your fault," a soft, feminine voice – the policewoman, she realizes – assures her before shutting her in again. Locks coming down with an indignant ' _hmmph_.'

Casey curls up into a ball, sliding the jacket off her shoulders to clutch like a blanket instead. Burying her wet face in it, she squeezes her eyes shut and listens to the heavy sound of her panting, until the rest of the noise fades. Until the tears stop and snot dries up and she's back to feeling hollow. Breath calming, becoming even. Sounds like ocean waves. She lets it take her. Deeper and deeper.

In the distance she can hear the whistling of wind again.

 _Rejoice,_ it says.

 _Rejoice_...


End file.
